Bittersweet
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: He wonders if Matthew would look at him any differently if he knew that his lab partner and classmate he sits across from in art has a crush on him the size of China. [Romanada, three-shot]


**A/N **;; This drabble is, again, uploaded from my Tumblr. There's a reason you guys should follow me. I always upload there first.

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**Bittersweet  
[Part 1/3]**

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His eyes are captivating.

As an artist, Lovino finds himself comparing their colour to the brilliant shades of violet and blue of the Aurora Borealis, blended in perfect harmony above a snowy, sleepy town in northern Canada. He tries to recreate the flawless colours in his sketchbook, but even with multiple minute glances towards Matthew throughout the hour, he still cannot bring himself to imitate them. It must be impossible, he thinks, throwing his pencil across the table with an irritated sigh.

A small cough brings his attention back to the boy sitting across from him, interrupting his teetering thoughts of whether or not he should just scrap the sketch he had been working on for the past hour. This time, he catches Matthew's eye when he looks up, and he sees the Canadian is holding his pencil out towards him with a questioning yet meaningful look.

Are you okay? he asks silently, raising one of his eyebrows as he shakes the pencil.

Lovino replies with a jerky nod, grabbing the pencil out of Matthew's grip. He brings the tip back to his sketchbook, forcing his eyes downwards.

But he isn't fast enough, because his thoughts catch up to him before he can stop them.

He is reminded of the anonymous chocolates he had almost – _almost _– slipped inside Matthew's desk for Valentine's Day last year, and of the hand-written letter professing his feelings he had crafted for him the year before that. He feels a familiar, hardened ache settle in his chest, tangling around his heart and settling in the pit of his stomach, and he cringes before he can think to stop himself. But, even if he'd had the time, he didn't think he would have stopped himself. He deserves it. He's pitiful, unable to get a few fucking words past his throat in order to confess to his… god, are they even friends at all?

From the top of his gaze, he can catch a slight half-smile on Matthew's lips before he turns his gaze down to his lap. It's the smile of a selfless, beautiful, seventeen-year-old who doesn't have a clue that his chemistry lab partner/classmate he sits across from in art has a crush on him the size of China. He wonders if Matthew would look at him the same way if he did know. Would their relationship – what little of it there was – change at all?

He should hate Matthew. He should hate the boy with flawless skin, kind eyes, and a delicate face. He should hate the boy who wears baggy sweaters to hide himself behind, who is the town's local hockey team captain, and who never notices the crouched, hidden figure in the corner of the bleachers at each and every one of his games, shivering but refusing to leave. And sometimes, he almost can. He almost does hate him.

But, it is the _things _he hates.

Not Matthew.

Never Matthew.

He hates every single sweet curve of his body, and the way his long, dark eyelashes curl softly against his cheeks. He hates the fact that he has to see him every single day without fail. He hates the way his eyes are automatically drawn to Matthew's lips when they sit in the library, discussing their lab project or the next art project that they would be inevitably partnered up on. He hates the way Matthew's fingers tap out the tunes of his favourite songs, and that in the two years that they've known each other, Lovino has memorized each and every one of them.

He hates the way Matthew sees him, but never _looks._

He hates how quickly Matthew was able to snatch his attention, without even trying, and has never since let him go.

He hates that his eyes are as bright as the northern lights and that his smile can both send the blood rushing to his cheeks and brighten his entire day simultaneously.

But he hates himself more.

A nudge against his leg – a call for attention – brings Lovino out of his thoughts, and he doesn't need to look up to tell that Matthew is smiling again. He thinks of the expression like a hook – jagged, sharp, and trapping. Like his handwriting, the curve of his lips is fluid – beautiful, unreadable, slipping between Lovino's fingers like grains of sand into a world of its own. He grits his teeth, his molars grinding together almost painfully, but he can't help but twist his jaw tighter as he raises his gaze.

Matthew is holding up his sketchbook, and Lovino finds a full page drawing of himself staring back at him. In the picture, he is working on his own sketch, staring down at his lap as his hand rests on the desk, and Lovino's eyes look over each and every individual line, taking in the incredible amount of detail Matthew had put into the drawing, thinking back on something. He had once heard that when looking at a piece of art, the onlooker would be able to tell if the subject of the art piece was something the artist was truly passionate about.

He thinks he sees passion in Matthew's piece, but he supposes it could be just wishful thinking.

He nods.

It's good.

Matthew laughs quietly.

Thank you.

Lovino looks back down at his own piece, at the portrait of Matthew he had spent the entire class on. He stares at for a long moment, tapping his pencil against the rings of his sketchbook. He still has to blend the colour for the eyes, but he can see his own feelings in the piece.

And he wants to think that whatever emotion he saw in Matthew's art wasn't imagined.

He hopes.

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**A/N **;; I haven't written Romanada for so long. I've missed it dearly.

And I really like this style. What do you guys think?

Stay awesome, guys.


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